Writing Contest 1/Dixonlovessquirrels
This is Dixonlovessquirrel's entry in Writing Contest 1.The character chosen is "The Hermit", who appeared briefly in the tv series. Writing Contest 1: The Hermit 1973 He was 9 years old. Innocent, wouldn't-harm-a-fly type of child. He stayed like that the rest of his life. He stared into his mother's eyes, listening carefully to her every word. She was a smart woman, but stuck in a shitty job, bringing home barely enough food for her husband and son, almost starving herself to death in the process. Her husband, a mean, abusive and truly a scary man. He didn’t care about her, or her son. He beat them regularly, she would remember it, but their son wouldn’t. He had a gift, in which he could block out all of the bad things in the world. Anytime his father would lay a finger on him, he would black out, go to a happier place. Which brings us back to now. He stared at his mother, listening closely. Blood surrounded them. His mother kept her hand on his face, so that he couldn’t look behind him, where his dead father lay, where he had forced a kettle into the back of his father’s skull. “It’s gonna be ok. Just you and me now”, she said. She had called the police, the only people she could trust. “Always trust the police”, she would say to him. He always remembered it. “And, always make sure they have a badge”. He had grown attached to his mother. She was the only thing he had in the world, short hair, beautiful. He had dreamed his entire life of them being free. Nothing to worry about, not his father, not money, nor food. Finally he thought. Finally. 1980 He was 16 years old. He finally had a normal life. His mother was working to her full extent, a teacher. He enjoyed his life now, even though he didn’t remember when it was bad. He had brought up new hobbies, mainly fishing. His mother knew why he liked fishing, because his father did. She knew she couldn’t stop him, because she loved seeing him so happy. So she dealt with it. He would stay out there for hours at a time, he didn’t care what he caught, he would throw it back anyway. His mother died that year, causing him to go into complete shock. He was in denial, for a long time. He went into numerous foster homes, but nobody would give him a chance, because he wouldn’t give them one. Eventually, he ran away. He figured that he could stay with himself. He didn’t want a replacement for his mother. 1998 He had survived years on his own. Living in small shacks and teaching himself how to hunt. He lived mostly off of fish, but sometimes he could find a deer or squirrel to eat. He was a loner, nobody knew of him, and he didn’t know anyone. He was a lone wolf. He had nobody, no one at all. He didn’t feel depressed, he didn’t feel anything, but deep down, he knew it was there. He knew he was different from everyone else. He knew he caused trouble. So he stayed away from everyone, distanced himself. 2006 Everything was “normal”. His daily routine was the same for years. Venturing out, catching food, going back home and eating it. He was peaceful. One day, he came across an old dog while he was fishing. The dog sat next to him, panting. He was unsure of what to do. It wasn’t his first time seeing a dog, but it was the first time a dog came up to him, instead of running away from him. He put his hand on its head. The dog closed its eyes, leaning towards him. He smiled, for the first time in a long time. He didn’t give the dog a name, but he was close to the dog, the same feeling had when he was with his mother. It wasn’t love, it was warmth. Safe 10 MONTHS AFTER THE OUTBREAK He sat there, everything had changed. His dog lay there. Every morning, his dog would wake him up, he go out, get food, and that would be it. But his dog didn’t wake him up that morning. His dog stayed asleep. He couldn’t understand what was happening. His dog wouldn’t wake up. He figured that he would wake up soon enough. He left the dog where he was, and continued his daily routine. He’d make his way to the lake. Most of the time, a walker would make its way towards him. He always knew what to do. Aim for the head. He would sometimes shoot it, sometimes stab it. But it didn’t matter. He always blacked it out. Every kill, every second lost. He was confused as to why he would have a bullet less for his gun. Eventually, he grew tired. His dog wasn’t there to keep him company, still asleep. He would sleep during the day, losing track of time. There was nothing left. He came upon a prison, looking around, he thought it was empty. He walked behind a tree, making sure it was safe. He looked around and noticed a woman. She was cutting open a dead body on the ground. He turned around and walked back home, blacking it out. Day 312 into the apocalypse He had another one of those dreams. He’d remember part of that night. The night he killed his father. The only thing he remembered is what happened beforehand. His father’s fist meeting his mother’s face. He remembered the thud. Each one making him jump. But the last one, the one where the kettle his father’s head, is the one that has woken him up the past few weeks. But this time, when it happened, when the kettle came into contact with his father’s head, he was awoken by strangers. Four of them. “Who the hell are you?” he shouted, lifting his gun. “We don’t mean any harm”, the stranger said. “Get out of my house”, he said. “Ok, ok, ok, we will”, the stranger said, “But we can’t right now”. “Now!” he said. “Shut him up”, a woman from the group said. “Get out, right now!” he shouted. “There are walkers outside!” the stranger said. “I’ll call the cops!” he said. “I am a cop!” the stranger said. The stranger lowered his weapon, trying to calm him. But he needed proof. He loaded his gun. “Show me your badge”. Category:Writing Contest Category:Dixonlovessquirrels' Stories